Truth or Dare
by JadedDana
Summary: It's several months after the movie, and Dr. Lecter wants to play another game.
1. Wanna Play?

**I'm not Tom Harris-they're not mine. No copyright infringement intended, yadda yadda yadda**  
  
Truth or Dare  
By JadedDana  
  
Part 1  
  
I woke from an odd and slightly scary dream where thousands and thousands moths were fluttering around me, smothering me, to the sound of my phone ringing. It took me a moment to realize it wasn't part of my dream, that it really WAS ringing, and another moment to fumble at my bedside table to pick up. "Hullo....Starling here." I'm sure whoever was calling could tell I had been asleep. I expected it to be Mr. Crawford, telling me that there was an absolutely urgent file he wanted me to look at right then.  
  
"Why hello, Clarice. Did I wake you?" the unmistakable voice, cool, polite, with undertones of metal and danger caused my heart to stop momentarily.   
  
"Doctor Lecter." I couldn't think of anything else to say, I was still shocked. I glanced at the glowing red digits on my alarm clock almost absently as my still sleep-drugged mind tried to process the unexpected situation. 3:21. Somehow, the red reminded me of my caller's eyes--unearthly, just like him.  
  
"I can see that I did. I apologize....occasionally I forget about the time differences. Have your nights been silent?" His voice is slightly mocking, with another note I can't quite place. Amusement, most likely. My mind struggles to think of some way to have the call traced, but I know there's no way it would work. Why, oh why is he calling? After the fiasco that nearly resulted in his death, I expected him to vanish once more into the shadowy streets of some European city, never to be heard from again. Hopefully.  
  
"Doctor Lecter....why are you calling me? Where are you?" I know he won't answer, but I had to ask.  
  
His rich and strangely terrifying laugh sends chills down my spine. My mind's eye sees him again, feeding Krendler a piece of his own brain, and I choke down some bile which has risen in my throat. "Ah, Clarice, now that would be telling. Suffice to say I am in a far better place than you would prefer to see me. Did you manage to escape from our last meeting career intact? Not until I was safely away did I even consider how our dear Tattler might misinterpret your situation. I trust you have not been harassed unduly?" How typical of him....taunting me and then expressing concern I was not subjected to rudeness. If he weren't a monster, I'd find it charming. But even as a warm feeling from his gentlemanly words rises, the image Krendler's open scull causes me to gag. I must admit I do not miss the cretin, but I still wake up at night sometimes, with the memory of that awful dinner keeping me awake. Sometimes it's even worse--sometimes I joined Doctor Lecter in the meal. The first time I had that dream, I awoke vomiting and didn't stop for hours. I draw my attention back to the conversation at hand.  
  
"That rag was annoying, as usual, but Crawford managed to pull enough strings to keep me in the FBI, at least. Quantico is actually more enjoyable than I'd expected. Regular hours suit me. Why are you calling, Doctor Lecter?" This...man? creature? Other. The Other has always stirred up so many feelings in me, most of which I can't even name, and hearing is cool crisp voice on the phone, late at night, is causing them to all rise up at once, almost swallowing me up. Foremost, there's respect--his intellect, his taste, his manners--all deserve nothing but the highest respect. Disgust, certainly. Occasionally, in my darker moods, an appreciation for his sense of irony; his victims often receive a Dante-esque end. Anger, most definitely--angry at the way he toys with my mind, angry that he used Catherine's life as a token chip, angry that such a magnificent person could be such a monster. And thousands of others, unnamable. I'm angry mostly, though; angry that he called me in the middle of the night, angry because he destroys out of whimsy what I work so hard to preserve, angry that his monstrosity ruined my career, angry because deep down I know that he had little to do with my disillusionment, angry that did me the courtesy of telling me the truth about everything, including myself.  
  
"Ah, Clarice. So impatient. But since it IS rather late for you, I'll indulge you and get right to the point. I missed our little games of truth-or-dare, Special Agent Starling." His voice has that tone, the iron undertones and playful overtones, which tells me he wants to play, but a game where the stakes are terribly high. Of course, he knows no other games. I'm puzzled by the truth-or-dare part; memories of me and the other girls whispering in the dark at the orphanage about stealing candy or first kisses seems decidedly out of place in this conversation. He continues before I can worry about it too long, though. "Our truth sessions were quite entertaining, were they not? And once I made my fortunate disappearance, I found that I occasionally missed your overly-honest, terrifyingly naïve manners, ill-fitting suits and cheap shoes. Regrettably, your untimely phone call cut short the 'dare' part of the game. Whatever happened to the dress? It was quite lovely on you--I hope you kept it." Ah. Truth--the exchange of information during the Buffalo Bill case. And he considers the dinner a DARE? Looking back, those adrenaline-filled moments with my hair caught in the refrigerator DID remind me of the rush of the challenge of a dare. Those moments all blur together, I don't remember the exact sequence of events. Whatever drug he had given me, combined with the emotional upheaval at watching a man eat his own brains and the massive amounts of adrenaline flooding my system leaves me only a blur of piercing eyes and a moment of anticipated pain that never came. Another memory, the Other whispering "that's my girl," remains locked in a little chamber of my mind simply because I have no idea how to feel about it. I do know THAT moment never made it into the police report.  
  
"So Doctor Lecter, that doesn't answer the question. Why did you call?"  
  
"tsk, tsk. You really must learn patience, Clarice. Especially with your new job as a teacher. Not everyone is as naturally talented with firearms as you. Do you terrify your students?" So he knows about my reassignment as Firearms instructor at Quantico. A feeling of unease rises in my stomach, knowing that he must have been paying attention to my life. What else does he watch, I wonder? Does he know how two nights ago I showed up on Crawford's doorstep, crying because I felt guilty? That he let me sob until I couldn't cry anymore and fell asleep on his couch? That I still have Bella's handkerchief in my jewelry box? I suddenly know the horrible feeling stalking victims must experience. Why me? Why doesn't he just disappear in Rome or Paris or wherever the hell he is and leave me alone?  
  
"To be honest, Doctor Lecter, it's very late and I don't see where this conversation is headed. Will you please get to the point before I get bored and hang up?" I hope, knowing it's impossible, that he'll believe I would get bored and just hang up. I couldn't let him disappear like that again, and it's highly unlikely I will ever be bored when dealing with Hannibal Lecter, MD.  
  
"Clarice, would you like to finish our little game? Your unfortunate phone call ended it before it had the chance to get really fun." His voice when he says 'fun' sends chills up my spine. I'm afraid to ask what his idea of 'fun' is. But I see a marvelous opportunity here. We might just be able to catch him, if he's implying some sort of meeting. I ignore the part of me that's anxious to participate in the game because it, too, feels a sense of a premature ending.  
  
"What are you suggesting?"  
  
"I suppose that will have to suffice for a 'yes.' You really should work on your conversation skills. Now Clarice, listen carefully. If you want to play, be a good girl and buy yourself a plane ticket to Moscow within the week. Take your cell phone, and that dress. And please, my dear Agent Starling, try to keep your rookie agent tag-a-longs to a minimum? They so rarely are worth the trouble to butcher. Ta." I hear the click, meaning he's hung up, but I still hear his haunting voice. After a moment, the automated voice comes on the line and tells me to hang up. I do, somewhat numbly. I glance again at the clock. The red of the Other's eyes glare back at me. 3:39. It's way too early or way too late for me to deal with this. I pull the covers back over my head, curl up into a fetal position, and try vainly to sleep until my alarm goes off at 5:45.  
  
Fin   
Part 1  



	2. Permission Granted

***None of this belongs to me, no copyright infringment intended, etc***  
  
Truth or Dare  
Part 2  
by JadedDana  
  
  
My first class didn't start until 11, so I called Jack Crawford to see if he could meet me for breakfast. Since retirement last fall, he'd been 'consulting' with the Bureau, but he still had lots of free time, most of which he spent gardening. Since John Brigham died, he's been my unofficial confessor, and is probably the only person who could help me sort out the mess in my head and figure out what to do about the Other.  
  
"What's on your mind, Starling?" he asked, after agreeing. I'm sure he could hear the worry in my voice, but I didn't want to get into it over the phone and said as much. "Okay. Better hurry over, though, before I eat all these pancakes myself."   
  
As I parked my Mustang in Crawford's well-kept drive, I noticed Bella's roses were in bloom. Although I never met the woman, I feel as if I know her--Jack speaks fondly of her often, how she loved those rose bushes and would fuss over them constantly. I smile, then open the front door and walk to the kitchen. Jack's pouring coffee, and I notice he has two mugs. Must have seen me drive up. "Here ya go, Starling. Food's on the table."  
  
I take the cup with a smile and obediently turn to the table. Pancakes, bacon for me, toast, fresh fruit. Jack's quite the cook. I wonder if he made Bella breakfast in bed often. I sit down and immediately dig in. Hannibal Lecter can wait until after I've eaten. I notice that Jack doesn't put any syrup on his pancakes and the butter he uses is low fat. Good--his doctor was quite adamant that if he kept eating horribly, combined with his disturbing and high-stress job, his life expectancy was about 1 month. He's already had surgery twice on his heart.  
  
As I lean back in the chair to savor my second cup of hazelnut coffee, Jack asks, "What's up, Starling?" I know he doesn't just mean the weather. It just all comes tumbling out--the phone call, my fear, my need to catch him. Jack listens quietly until I've finished, but I can tell he has a lot to say about a number of things.  
  
"Starling, you know that after Muskrat Farm they won't let you anywhere near his case file, let alone the investigation. And even if they were to let you pursue, there's no way they'd let you leave the country. And Russia of all places. There's no way the FBI will let you go as an agent." He says all that before I even stated I wanted permission to go. I hate how people read my mind.  
  
"Sir, I just can't let this go. This may be our last real chance to catch him, and you know as well as I that he won't stop killing until he's imprisoned." A momentary memory of Miggs, of Chilton's picture of the nurse flashed through my mind. "Sir, I know it's a danger, but I CAN'T just forget about this."  
  
Jack's voice gets a little bit harsher. "Starling, you can NOT just hop on a plane and wait for a mass murderer to call you and tell you what dark alleyway to meet him in. From the start he's enjoyed fucking with your mind, but someday he'll get tired of it and get rid of you. The Bureau would say 'no way,' and for once I agree."  
  
My voice gets calmer and more certain as I reply. I realize I've made my decision to pursue, and Jack's well meaning hinderances won't stop me. "With all due respect, sir, I am fully aware that Hannibal Lecter is a mass murderer and that pursuing him will lead me into danger. But the fact that he IS a murderer is why I have to do this, and I'm willing to gamble my safety against his sense of justice and courtesy. I saved his life at Muskrat, he doesn't forget that easily and won't try to kill me. At least, not unless his freedom's at stake. And I will wait for backup this time."  
  
"Starling, how do you know this isn't some sort of trap?"   
  
"Sir, this is a mind game, but you know as well as I that he adheres faithfully to his own rules, and I can tell that my death is not the goal of this. He wants amusement, nothing more nothing less." Jack takes a breath and I can tell he's about to ask HOW I know my death isn't the purpose of this little jaunt. "I just know, sir. Trust me."  
  
I can see in his eyes I've started to sway him. "Starling, there's still the problem of the Bureau. Like I said, they won't let you near the case, so you'd have to fly commercial, and no way in hell will a commercial airline let you take a gun into Russia. And you cannot go without some sort of backup. I'll go with you."  
  
I drop my coffee cup and it shatters on the pristine tile of the kitchen floor. "Jack, NO. I already told you he made it quite clear he'd eliminate any backup I brought, and you know he hates you almost as much as you dislike him. He'd waste no time killing you." I can't let that happen. I bend down and start picking up pieces of the cup. I'm so angry I don't even notice when I cut my finger, but I see the bright crimson drop of blood that drops to the tile. I watch it, something about the color just sucks me in. I start when I hear Jack's voice again.  
  
"Well then, I'll take a different flight, we can stay in touch by phone, he won't even know I've left the States. But you're not going alone." I hear the finality in his voice, and for the first time I wish he DIDN'T have the connections to have me stopped at customs for pursuing a felon I was specifically told to stay away from and shipped back home. His plan did sound like it could work, though, and I really didn't like the idea of being in a foriegn country, of which I spoke not one word of the language, alone, playing games with a mass murderer.   
  
"Fine sir....just promise me that if either of us suspects he knows you're there, you'll get out of there faster than you can say 'cannibal', ok?" I hope he agrees: while I fear for his safety, I'm glad I've got unnofficial permission to go play mind games with a murderer. My pulse already beats a little bit faster at the prospective of...of what? Letting a madman pick apart my brain, perhaps literally? Except he's no madman. I think his problem is he's simply more sane than the rest of the world. And what I told Jack was true. Lecter does not plan to try and kill me, this I know. What exactly he has in mind, I'm not sure.  
  
"Fine. I suppose you want to leave as soon as possible? Figures. Well, go to class, then tell Quantico you're taking a few weeks off. This is the end of the semester anyways, right? Ok, well, I'll get us tickets and arrange for you to borrow a gun and get a temporary permit for it when we get there." I smile, somewhat warily. I'm actually doing this. It still feels unreal, like a bad dream. I haven't had time to examine my motives exactly, and I don't think I want to. He's a muderer, I'm trying to stop him. The rush of adrenaline is because you know it will be immensly dangerous. You only have 40 minutes before class starts, so get out of here, girl!!  
  
"Thank you, sir. I've gotta go. I'll call you later." I throw away the shards of the coffee cup, grab a napkin to wipe up the coffee and blood, but Jack just waves me off.   
"I'll get it....now go." We smile and I grab my purse on the way out, grateful that he's letting me go, grateful he's coming, and upset that I won't capture Hannibal Lecter alone. Why? Do I really want the glory of catching the world's most renouned serial killer enough to risk my life by wanting no backup? Or is it just that I want the chance to ask him WHY? And why not?  
  
Fin  
Part 2 


	3. Arrival

***None of this belongs to me. It's all Mr. Harris's.***  
  
  
Truth or Dare  
Pt 3  
  
I stepped out of the gate at the Moscow airport, dog tired from twenty-three hours of too-small airline seats, recycled air, screaming brats, smelly restrooms, and disgusting airline food. Now I was in a strange country where I spoke not one word of the native language, a mass murderer was chasing me, and I was disobeying an indirect order from the institution which was my life. Screw the cannibal--all I wanted was a hot bath and a long nap. Bad choice of words, Clarice, I muttered under my breath as I hoisted my backpack and looked at the strange signs, wondering which one meant 'baggage claim.' An elderly businessman behind me saw my confused looks and smiled kindly. "Baggage claim's that way." He said. "First time in Moscow?" I returned the smile. Always rely on the kindness of strangers, a voice whispered in my mind. Whose, I'm not sure.  
  
"Thank you...yes, it is." I follow him in the direction where most of the other travellers are going, and now I can see the baggage claim. I spot my brown leather suitcase and grab it before heading to what appears to be the customs line. I see three people who look like college students and manage in a tired voice, "This the right line for Americans who just want out of here as soon as possible?" I wonder if the sarcastic humor is more a result of the stress or the exhaustion. The young man has the gall to look me up and down as he replies, "sure is, miss." One of two girls shoots him a glare. I'm simply too tired to care. I set down my suitcase pull the bottled water I recieved two flights back from my backpack, grimacing at the now-warm taste. Oh well...it wouldn't do to swoon here. Dr. Lecter would probably find it amusing, and I'm not in the mood to humor him. For a customs line, it moves fast, and it's only about 15 minutes until I reach the harried-looking clerk. I hand him my passport and he barely glances at it, but when he sees my name he pauses.   
  
"Ah, Ms. Starling. The police left you a package. I hope you enjoy your visit to Russia." With that, he hands me a box with a rather antique-looking lock and a key, then waves me on. I pick up my suitcase and move through the gate and collapse into a chair in the waiting area and take another drink of water. I pull out my cell phone, turn it on, and notice there are two missed calls. One is Jack's cell--he didn't leave a message, just called to verify he'd made it to Moscow. The other was Ardelia--why was she calling? I haven't heard from her in two or three months. A few years ago she got married and left the Bureau to be a stay-at-home mom. Her two daughters are adorable, but she's so busy now I hardly get a chance to see any of them. Just my luck she'd call while I was in the middle of...well, whatever this insanity was. I look at the slip of paper that has my hotel's name on it, then stick the box into my backpack and wearily pick up the suitcase, looking for something like an exit to this mess. A little girl about 10 runs up to man who just walked through the gates and throws her arms around him, her brown hair brushing my arm as she wizzes past. It reminds me breifly of my father before I brush the memory aside. I'm too tired for that now.  
  
A ringing from behind me goes unnoticed for the first two rings before I realize that's MY phone. I quickly swing my backpack around front, fumbling with the zipper and manage to grap the phone on the fourth ring. The number is unfamiliar; I feel a sense of dread as I realize it's probably him. After another ring, I manage to press 'receive' and put it to my ear. "Hullo?" I curse myself mentally for the thick Appalachia accent that emerges whenever I get tired. I'm sure it irritates him, then wonder why I care.  
  
"Good afternoon, Clarice. I trust your flight was no more miserable than must be expected?" His steel-and-silk voice sends alternating chills and warmth through my exhausted system. I feel something inside me snap. His voice says he's ready to play; I simply don't have the patience for this right now, and my exhaustion, or my outrage, causes me to snap at him before I can think about it.  
  
"Doctor Lecter, the flight sucked and I'm dead tired now so you'll just have to wait for your little mind-fucking until I've had at least 6 hours sleep. I'm turning the phone off until I've had a nap. good-bye." I hit 'end' just as I realize that may not have been the smartest thing to say to a mass murderer. Oh well, what's done is done. The phone rings again immediately, and I pause a moment before answering.   
  
"I apologize, Clarice, I forgot not everyone travels as well as I do. I will let you get some rest; in fact, I've arranged for a room for you at a much better place than that flea-stand you reserved space at. If you go through the doors to your left, a taxi will be waiting there for you. He already knows where to take you. Sweet dreams." This time, HE hangs up before I have a chance to think about what he's just said. The door to my LEFT? How can he know where I am? He's here! I can feel his eyes on me like a burning touch. I wonder what he thinks of my appearance even as I scan rapidly the area to my right and left. The casual suit I'm wearing, with pale grey pants and a emerald blouse, fits me better and cost more than the suit I wore when I first met him. I spent a lot on the shoes as well. I wonder if he notices. I spin around, and he's there, ten or so feet behind me. I get a glimmer of maroon eyes and white teeth underneath a fedora and a wave of electricity and adrenaline shoot through my already overwrought system. A large family pushes between us, chattering away in Russian, and by the time they've moved he's gone. I look around but I know I will not find him, so I turn to the door he directed me to. As I step through I see a line of cabs and don't know which one he meant. Luckily, a well-dressed man comes up to me and takes the suitcase from my hand.  
  
"Ms. Starling, let me take this. I'm to take you to the hotel, yes?" His english, although accented, is very clear. I wonder, only briefly, how he recognized me as I follow him to a Mercedes. He opens the door for me and I get in. I know it is unwise to blindly allow a stranger, apparently under the direction of Dr. Lecter, to drive me around Moscow, but I'm too tired to care. He pulls away and drives through the city, then pulls up in front of a very nice-looking hotel. I can't read the sign, it's in Russian, but the exterior screams taste and money. The driver leans back and hands me a room key-card. "It's room 304, Ms. Starling. I hope you enjoy your stay in Moscow." He gets out, opens my door for me again, and hands my suitcase to the waiting attendant. Before I can blink, he's gone again. I shrug and follow the attendant inside the tastefully expensive lobby, into the elevators, and to my room on the third floor. He puts the suitcase next to the closet then leaves before I can give him a tip. It should make me nervous that Dr. Lecter has gone to such lengths, but I'm too tired to worry about it. I glance around the room. It certainly is nicer than whatever I had reserved; an antique bed, a sitting area with a small television, a large bathroom with a huge tub AND a separate shower. How expensive. But tasteful. Of course, nothing less could be expected of Hannibal Lecter.  
  
I put open my backpack and pull out the box the customs agent gave me. Jack said he arranged for me to borrow a gun and get a temporary permit to carry it, so I'm not surprised to see a .45, a drivers-license style permit, with large print showing it valid for 1 month. Also inside is a note from Jack letting me know his trip went fine and that to return the gun I should just go to the police station and give them both the gun and the permit. He ended the note with the same warning he'd given me when I first went to speak with the esteemed doctor: Never forget what he is. I put all that on the bedside table, get up long enough to lock the door (not that that would stop him if he really wanted to get in) and change into my pajamas, barely managing to fold the easily-wrinkled slacks over a chair before collapsing into bed. Just before I drift off, I remember I'm supposed to call Jack. I fumble for my phone, dial his number and leave a quick message when the answering service picks up immediately. He probably turned it off so he could get some rest.  
  
"Sir, it's Starling. I made it here, now I'm going to sleep. I'll keep in touch." I manage to shut the phone off before dropping it to the floor and lapsing into sleep.  
  
Fin  
Pt 3 


	4. Preparations

***yet again, it all belongs to T. Harris, etc.***  
  
Truth or Dare  
Part 4  
  
I woke up feeling refreshed and desperately in need of a shower. My mouth felt like a jungle--I'd forgotten to brush last night before falling asleep. What time was it, anyway? I fumbled around at the bedside table, almost knocking off the lamp before pulling my watch close enough to read. 11:32am. The light from the open window reflected off the watch, momentarily blinding me. Wait a minute--OPEN window? I know it was closed last night, but the breeze assured me it was, indeed, open. I sat up quickly, blinking quickly and looking around the room. The first thing I noticed was a flower bouquet on the coffee table--red and white somethings. The slacks I'd left folded over a chair were gone. As were the shoes I'd kicked off the second I'd stepped in the room. WHAT was going on?  
  
I knew, somehow, that he'd been in here, had left me the flowers and done whatever with my clothes. It wasn't someone on orders from him, he himself was in this room while I slept. The thought infuriated me. As I'm sure he knew it would. I glance at the door; the good doctor had even managed to re-lock the deadbolt and chain when he left. Well, I'm assuming that nothing he did will result in my immediate death, so I might as well get up.  
  
I get up and walk over to the flowers. Crimson roses with baby's breath accents. How beautiful, if a bit cliche for the eccentric doctor. I'd expect foxglove or something more exotic. I bend over and smell them; it's heavenly. I notice an envelope, labelled 'Clarice' in his unmistakable hand, but I still feel too heavy from sleep to deal with it right now. I head towards the closet door and notice my suitcase is no longer in front of it. If that son of a bitch stole all my clothes, he better run fast and far. I open the closet, and to my surprise all my clothes hang neatly on hangers; the shelves contain my sweater, both pairs of jeans I packed, and my underclothes, all neatly folded. He went through my things! That bastard!! Somehow, the image of him touching my underwear nearly made me go for the gun sitting on the nightstand. I managed to get a grip before I destroyed something, though. After all, I theoretically know that he's already seen my underwear--somehow I had to have gotten from my bloodstained khakis into that dress, and while I trust that he was entirely in 'doctor' mode when he did it, it doesn't disturb me nearly as much as knowing he was here, unpacking for me. Maybe it's because that could be seen as a medical neccessity, while this is much more an intrusion--no, an attack--on my privacy. Oh well, I can't do anything about it right now, and I desperately need a shower. I grab a semi-casual change of clothes and head for the bathroom. Sure enough, all my toiletries are present and accounted for, as well as a bottle of perfume that just on looks I know I could never afford. I seethed inside again as I shut and locked the door. I decided on a shower instead of a bath, prefering to save that luxury for the evening.  
  
After I've showered and brushed my teeth, I feel very, very much more human, and the curious-apprehensive emotion which is reserved entirely for dealings with Doctor Lecter overwhelming me about the note. I pad back into the main room, barefoot and with a towel draped over my shoulders to keep my wet hair from soaking my shirt and grab the note carefully as I sit down in one of the armchairs. Somehow I think I should be sitting, and far from my gun, when I read his latest mind-game.   
  
  
My Dear Clarice,  
How nice to see you arrived safe and sound. You appear to be sleeping very comfortably right now--the lambs must be silent. This is your first trip to Russia, isn't it? In fact, I think you've never been farther from dear old Appalachia in your life. Well, my dear, take this opportunity and obsorb some of the delightful feelings of freedom I've felt ever since I managed to escape your esteemed F.B.I. This is your chance as well, Clarice. Savor the air that does not demand you "protect" it so they can demote you. Moscow is beautiful, and I hope you take the time to notice that before the games begin.  
  
I notice you failed to bring your dress as I asked you to. Such a pity. I suppose you have all afternoon to shop for a replacement, though. I'm quite curious to see what you select for yourself. How long has it been since you had an evening out, Clarice? It is a luxury no one should forgo for very long. Now, I have a few more preparations before the playing board is set, so I must depart. Sweet Dreams, Clarice.  
Hannibal Lecter  
  
  
I sat for a moment and puzzled over the note for several minutes. The most obvious curiousity is the lack of taunting. I have never had any kind of contact with Dr. Lecter, be it in person, by phone or by letter, which did not in some way involve him tormenting me. This letter, in stark contrast, sounds almost....caring. After several minutes, I decide he must have simply been too busy with his damn 'preparations' to take the time to destroy my soul. He obviously wrote the letter sitting right here. Or, he could simply be saving it all up for this horrible 'game.' I can already tell such a game will result in my soul being torn to tatters. Why did I embark on this mad crusade again? Oh yes, to stop this monster. This genius. This...whatever the hell he is.  
  
The last part of his note kept sticking in my head. I can't help but feel he's left me a hint on what my next step should be. "An evening out," he said. Well, I know nothing about the high culture of Moscow, but it wouldn't surprise me if he means he's going to the ballet or the opera or whatever tonight and wants to see if I can find him. A little hide and seek, eh Doctor? Well, now that I've had my nap, I'm willing to play. Even though a voice in the back of my mind warns it my be the end of me.  
  
I suddenly realize I'm feeling rather hungry. It's after noon now, and I haven't eaten since that fake airplane meal on the flight from Paris. I need to get out and make a few 'preparations' of my own if I'm to be ready for the opera or whatever tonight. I quickly dry my hair, throw on a pair of comfortable shoes and a jacket and start out the door. As I'm locking my door, I realize I forgot my phone and gun. I unlock the door and get them as well, placing them in my large purse. In the States I'd carry the weapon on my belt, but somehow that doesn't seem right here. I relock my door and head down to the lobby I barely remember passing through last night. I go up to the front desk and pray the elderly man speaks english as I think rapidly of the most subtle way to get the information I need.  
  
"Excuse me, I was wondering where a good place would be for lunch near here." Let's start with the immediate and most urgent questions.  
  
He looks at me and smiles. "Well, Ms. Starling, the deli around the corner is delicious, although if you're looking for a more American-style meal I would suggest the hotel restaurant." I'm momentarily taken aback that he, as well, knows my name. Did Doctor Lecter put out some kind of announcement on television before I got here? Just one more thing to ask him about when I finally do see him. If he hasn't killed me first. Or pushed me into insanity. With him, either is a possibility.  
  
"Thank you. And I was thinking, it's been a while since I spent the evening out. Is there, by any chance, an opera I could go to? Maybe the ballet?" I mentally cross my fingers that it doesn't sound like an interrogation but merely an honest question. Although I suspect it really wouldn't matter, seeing as he already knew my name. Once more, he smiles, and I don't have to strain to follow his mildly accented English.  
  
"Why yes, actually, there's an excellent ballet, and I believe tickets are still available. Would you like me to call and get you one?" This is just too easy.  
  
"I'd appreciate that. Now, how do I get to the deli?" I listen carefully to his instructions, then leave to get some lunch. After that, shopping, just like the doctor suggested. I hadn't brought the dress, mostly because it seemed like one way of convincing myself that I was actually in control, that I wasn't just following a serial killer's orders like some kind of sheep. Looking back, I should have just brought it. Now I have to find something to wear to a ballet, in a strange city where I don't speak the language, before this evening, and try to think of a way to turn this whole mess to my advantage. Simply following his directions will not be enough for me to bring him in. Well, I can plan at lunch. I order something at the deli and sit down, hoping it tastes good and doesn't happen to be one of the Doctor's favorites.  
  
Fin  
Part 4 


	5. Let the Games Begin

Truth or Dare  
part 5  
  
I finally managed to lock the clasp on my necklace and stepped back to look at myself in the mirror. My long hair was caught up in an intricate twist on my head with a few not-so-random curls hanging down. The dress I'd found, after only 2 hours of looking, was an emerald green satin that reached my ankles. It was straight and not nearly as form-hugging as the one he bought me, but it still managed to highlight enough curves to be stunning. The slit up the left side not only allows for a bit of leg, it also makes it possible to run without tripping. I checked. The spagetti straps, which look terribly fragile, were reinforced this afternoon by the seamstress--they will not rip on their own. I wanted to be absolutely certain this dress would hold up under a chase. The shoes have a thick heel and numerous straps which make it relatively easy to run in, as far as dress shoes go. I worried for a moment about wearing my necklace--the fine chain and single diamond were a gift to my mother from Daddy, and I would never want to lose it, but it's the only even faintly appropriate piece of jewelry I have with me, and I spent about as much as I'm willing on this evening already when you count the dress, shoes, and matching handbag. Why couldn't the Doctor enjoy cheap entertainment?  
  
I sit down on the bed and open my handbag, making sure that I have the gun, the permit, and my cellphone as well as my wallet and makeup. It's all there. I think back to what Jack said when I called him and informed him of my plan for the evening, such as it was. He was furious that Lecter had switched my hotel and that I was further following his instructions to go to the ballet. "Dammit Starling, this is about CONTROL and you are playing right into his hands! He held most of the cards to begin with, then you go and just hand him yours as well! What makes you think he won't just eat your heart as soon as he tires of screwing your mind? He's done it before, Starling. He's a murderer. This is NOT a game."  
  
I know this isn't a game--this is the most deadly serious thing I've ever done in my life. I'm more than aware that many lives, including my own, will be either destroyed or preserved, depending on how this turns out. But I also know that to Dr. Lecter, it's nothing more than a game, and Jack was right--he DOES hold most of the cards. So I'm going to play by his rules, at least until I get the upper hand. So it's off to the ballet. I need to leave, anyways: no more time to muse over meanings. I grab the ticket (thoughtfully placed on the bill, so Lecter must be picking up the tab, or at least whatever dead man's money he's using now) and my keys, glance around once more to make sure I haven't forgotten anything, and leave. I lock the door, momentarily amused as I think to myself how unnecessary it really is, since the most dangerous man in the country had already been in their while it was locked. I head back down to the lobby and find the same taxi driver that brought me here waiting by the door. "Are you ready, Ms. Starling?" I nod. What else could I do?  
  
I arrived on time, as I had planned. I lingered in the lobby, admiring the architecture and hoping to see him so I wouldn't have to sit through the entire performance with this horrible feeling of anticipation and dread. I knew I wouldn't pay one bit of attention to the performance. I noticed several men look at me in more than passing, but none approached me, and none had maroon-colored eyes, so I paid them no attention. Finally, the lights flashed, signalling the performance was about to begin, so I headed toward my seat. I clutched my handbag so it was easy to grab the gun resting at the top; judging from the way he'd been manipulating and controlling my every move since I arrived, I wouldn't be too surprised to find the Doctor occupying the seat next to mine. However, I was sandwiched between an elderly woman with too-heavy perfume and the squirming 12-year-old daughter of the elegant young couple behind us. Not a chance either was the Doctor, even if he were in disguise, which I doubt. The lights dimmed, and the ballet began.  
  
What little I did pay attention to of the performance was beautiful, at least to my admittedly uncultured eyes. I spent most of my time scanning the seats around and in front of me. About half-way through I remembered that Doctor Lecter always sat in the aisle seat and cursed all my wasted time. I glanced down along the aisle in front of me, but he wasn't there, I was sure. But he could easily be behind me. I was closer to the front than I thought I should be, especially if I was paying for the ticket. How could I look behind me without turning around and making a scene? I smiled as an idea came to me. I needed to touch up my makeup anyway.   
  
I crawled over the terribly bored 12 year-old and stood in the aisle, carrying my handbag and hoping everyone thought I was going to the restroom. I walked up the aisle rather slowly, trying as inconspicuously to glance at everyone as I passed. As far as I could tell, he wasn't there either. As I exited the auditorium, the usher glanced at me, so I figured I'd better go into the bathroom so as not to appear suspicious. During my afternoon shopping I'd learned to recognize the Russian sign for "Ladies Room" or whatever the exact title was, so I didn't have a problem discerning which door I needed to try. I reapplied my lipstick and then just stood looking in the mirror trying to decide what to do now.  
  
Well, I reasoned, it was his move. If this is all some kind of game, then I used my turn coming to the ballet. He'll probably approach me during the intermission. With that in mind, I grab my handbag off the counter and slip through the door back into the lobby.  
  
Only to feel a strong arm reach around my waist, the unmmistakable feel of a knifeblade brushing my side through the fabric. I stiffen up and turn to face him, careful not to lean into the blade and finding myself forced to lean into the arm instead. Doctor Lecter has a smile on his face. "Why my dear, fancy meeting you here!" He says it louder than I expect, and he inclines his head slightly to the left. My eyes dart in that direction and I see two ushers looking at us. Witnesses are a good thing--on the other hand, he's never been shy about public dismemberment, so I better not rely on their presence to save me. Luckily, he saves me from trying to decide whether to play along or to scream bloody murder by whispering in his serpent's voice, "I feel like I could use a bit of fresh air. Why don't we take a walk, Clarice?"  
  
I knew, of course, that it wasn't even a pretense of an invitation, but a command. I'm not sure if it was the steel in his eyes or in his hand that convinced me that now was not the time to try and get my gun. I see no option besides accompanying him, so I nod slightly and we walk towards the doors, his knife invisible to the doorman but unbearably present at my side.  
  
We walk several blocks in heavy silence. My mind races, searching desperately for a way to get away from him just long enough to get my gun out and on him. I'd actually need a good ten feet of space between us as well; I know he could disarm me if I was within arm's reach. How to get that space with his steel grip and even colder knife blade pressed against my side, though? A glimmer of an idea dances just out of reach. Suddenly, it hits me. Maybe, just maybe, I can use his honor system against him. I wait until the sidewalk appears relatively clear and runable.  
  
I shiver, allowing the cold as well as the fear and adrenaline to make me shudder, making certain he could feel it in the arm slung dangerously around my waist. As I'd hoped, he notices. "Are you cold, Clarice?" I glance at him, praying my intentions aren't written wide across my face. Only once have I ever managed to fool him, and I'm not entirely certain he believed me about Plum Island. But then again, I've only TRIED to fool him once. His face doesn't change as I nod, hesitantly, so I decide to continue with the idea.  
  
He stops walking for a moment and I stop with him. As I'd hoped, I feel the steel blade retracted fast as lightning as his arm losens and he begins to take off his jacket. I wait just until his arm is tangled a bit then dart forward as fast as I can, digging into my handbag as I go. Damnit! The gun got buried at the bottom when I touched up my makeup! I turn around, still digging in my purse for the gun, about fifteen feet from where I left him.   
  
He wasn't there anymore. Instead he was right behind me, the jacket discarded somewhere and the knife once again out, this time pressed against my neck just hard enough for me to feel how sharp the cool edge was. Almost as sharp and cold as his eyes, which bore a hole in my mind, making me unable to look away. I do the only thing I think which will preserve my life--I freeze.   
  
Neither of us move for a few moments, we just remain there locked like a Michelangelo as if made of marble. My shaky breaths cloud the few inches between our faces with evaporating moisture; as far as puffs of white indicate, he isn't even breathing. Finally, he moves, taking my handbag from me and tossing it into the wilted bushes of the house we are standing in front of. I just continue to look at him, hoping that I didn't anger him. If I did, I have no expectation of seeing the sunrise tomorrow. His face is unreadable, as usual.  
  
Suddenly I feel a piece of cloth drop onto my shoulders. I can still feel the warmth from his body in the jacket which he draped around me with the hand not holding the knife at my throat. I glance down at the hand holding the knife just a breath away from my mouth--it's the left, with only a thin white scar running from the wrist to the index finger marring the smoothness of it. I feel a sigh of muted relief escape my lips before I realize I even felt relief. "Your hand--" I look back up at his face.  
  
To my surprise, I see, instead of anger, the glimmer of a smile at the corners of his terrifying mouth. "I happened to 'run into' a rather skilled surgeon only an hour after my premature departure from our last meeting; he was more than willing to assist me, with proper encouragement of course. Unfortunately, I was unable to offer him the same assistance." I remember, vaguely, a brief news flash about a missing surgeon in the days after the horrible disaster at lake house, but I never connected it with the Doctor. How stupid of me, looking back on it. "Well. How about a quick walk by the river, catch up on old times, eh?" He moved his hand away from my throat and wrapped it, once again, about my waist. Although his tone had been surprisingly light and friendly, his grip was iron. The knife was much more obvious as well, albeit even less so to an observer. We started walking, and I decide simply to go along with it all--my last wild card lay in the bushes 20 feet back. He hums lightly the tune from the ballet, and I try to discern what his mood is, where we're going, or what the plan is. I can't tell anything. I see that we've reached the river and we slowly meander onto the walkway only feet from it. Still, he's said nothing. I wonder if it's safe to say something myself. Anything to break this dreadful silence.  
  
"Doctor Lecter, what do you want?" He doesn't look at me, but he sighs.  
  
"Not that tedious question again, Clarice. Do you ever ask anything different?" I wonder what he wants me to ask, then. Well, whatever it is, he'll have to say it himself.  
  
"Fine then. How about, why don't you turn yourself in?" I can feel he's not amused.  
  
"Clarice, that is the most ridiculous question I've heard in my life. Why don't we discuss something interesting, hm? Like how you're enjoying life at Quantico?" I flash back momentarily to all those years ago in his cell, with him dismissing Catherine's life to ask me what my worst memory of childhood was. A surge of anger at him surges through me and colors my reply.  
  
"They got rid of me like a fucking hot potato because of YOUR atrocities, Doctor Lecter. Now I try and show kids who've barely graduated high school how to not kill themselves with weapons they carry to defend themselves against people like YOU while they look at me like some goddamn piece of meat. Other than that, it's working out well." I'm not certain how much of the bitterness is directed at him and how much is towards the institution to which I gave my life. He stops suddenly, jerking me to a halt painfully and I feel the blade in his hand rip a tiny hole in the side of my dress. He pulls my face around painfully to face him.  
  
"People like ME, Clarice? Who, exactly, would that be? Are you certain it's not people like YOU they need protection from?" His eyes demand an answer, but I find I can't say anything, even if I wanted to. Absurd as his question sounded, it held the ring of truth in it, somehow. People like him didn't exist. I, on the other hand, had killed for something I believed in...not all that different from people, without the badge, who kill for the causes THEY believe in. Such thoughts are painful and I try to wrench my mind from them, but they linger, shadowing me with questions and guilt about the deaths I was responsible for. I try to turn my head to look at the water, but his iron grip refuses to let me budge in the slightest. I purse my lips, determined not to reply to him.  
  
He must have seen the determination in my face, or decided not to press me on it, because suddenly the hand on my face was gone and we were strolling again. I wonder vaguely where this nightmare is headed when he turns off the riverwalk and into a dark alley. I hesitate, but he pulls me along with him. I can sense his amusement at my reaction even through my sudden terror. "Clarice, I'm not going to stab you and leave you for dead in a dark alleyway...at least, not as long as you act wisely. I merely have something I need to retrieve."   
  
We pause in front of a half-rotting cupboard someone left here and we reaches into the dark corners of the top shelf and pulls out a small square of folded paper. He presses it into my hand, and I can't help the shiver that goes through me as our fingers brush. I can't see his face in the dark, but the sliver of a moon overhead gives just enough light to glint dangerously off the whites of his eyes and his teeth, drawn back into a terrifying smile. Suddenly the arm around my waist is gone, and before I have a chance to blink he's snatched the jacket from my shoulders and disappeared out into the street. I remain where I am for just a moment, then dart to the edge of the alleyway, but he's nowhere in sight. Behind me something stirs in the debris, and I walk away from the entrance quickly, hoping it's just a cat or rat. I realize I have no idea how to get back to my hotel. I start to try and retrace our steps along the river, shivering a bit from the cold night air. A moment later, a taxi pulls up beside me and I recognize my unofficial chauffeur.  
  
"Ms. Starling, it's chilly. Would you like me to take you back to the hotel?" I nod quickly as he gets out and opens the door for me. I must have drifted off on the ride back because the driver was suddenly shaking me and I recognized the hotel behind him. I mumbled a quick thanks as I managed to walk through the lobby and into the elevator. Suddenly I was SO exhausted. I knew I should call Jack, but I just wanted to sleep. As the doors opened on my floor, I finally remembered that my room key was in the handbag. Well, maybe the good Doctor took care of that, too, I thought almost desperately as I walked down to my door. Lying in front of it was an envelope marked "Clarice" in his now-familiar hand. Inside was no note, just my room key. I opened the door and tossed the envelope and the paper he'd handed me onto the table, managed to get into my pajamas and collapsed into bed without even washing off my makeup. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow.  
  
Fin   
part 5 


	6. Time Out

Truth or Dare  
part 6  
  
Something was screaming at me--measure, piercing cries that demanded an answer. At first I thought it might be the lambs, but somehow it didn't sound quite like them. More like....a telephone. Whatever it was, it had to stop before I lost my mind. My arm reached over in the general direction of the sound, somewhere to my left, and I felt a few pieces of what seemed to be paper flutter to the floor as I fumbled around what I think was my nightstand. Why wouldn't the noise just stop? I felt some kind of fabric, managed to open what I eventually realized was my purse, felt the still-ringing phone and somehow managed to get it to my ear and press 'recieve.' Luckily, my caller spoke immediately so I had another few moments to try and get my bearings and reconnect my brain and mouth.  
  
"Starling!! Thank God. Why the hell haven't you called? Are you all right? Starling?" Jack's voice sounded like something between a frantic parent and a furious drill instructor. I winced, tried to remember exactly why I was supposed to call him, and why I hadn't. Slowly, the previous day returned somewhat to me. What time was it, anyways? I felt...dead tired.  
  
"...Sir. Hi. Uh....what time is it?" I sit up a bit, pulling the blanket tighter about me. It's just a little cold in the room, and a quick glance at the window tells me it's night still, and that it has once again been opened. I'm still too tired to think about what that means, though. I try to focus enough so Jack doesn't send out a search party for me.  
  
"It's 4:37, Starling! You were supposed to call me the second you got back. I've been trying to get a hold of you since 2." His voice softened a bit, and now I just hear pure worry. "Clarice, are you okay? You sound horrible."  
  
"..Ya, I'm fine sir. Just completely exhausted. Sorry I didn't call you. Look, I'm still half asleep. Can I call you in like an hour so I can be concious when I'm debriefed?" Anything to make him go away and I can go back to sleep.  
  
"Alright Starling, why don't you take 2 hours and get a bit more sleep. It is awefully early. Or late, whatever. But if you don't call me...." He left the threat hanging. I knew it was just his way of showing how worried he'd been. If I was more awake, I'd feel guilty for making him worry, but right now I was just too tired.  
  
"Thanks sir. Later." I hung up and slumped back onto my pillows. My eyes wouldn't close, though. The previous evening was slowly coming back, and I realized I'd have to reflect on it now; I couldn't just react, like I did last night. I remember how the icy blade at my side contrasted with the warm weight of his arm around my waist, heightening both sensations. I remember the cool scent of his cologne. The tingle of warmth from shoulder to toe of feeling his body pressed close to mine without touching. How unbearably dangerous it felt. Those moments, with the knife blade at my throat still sent chills through my body. Dealing with the Doctor had always sent electricity throughout my system, a peculiar mixture of terror, challenge, and something else, something darker and more dangerous. It was like when, at age twelve, I'd found a book of matches and, out of curiousity, lit a candle in the attic at the Orphanage. We weren't allowed to be up there, let alone near a candle, but I wanted to stare into the flame. I did, amazed at how hypnotic it was. The colors fascinated me, but then I heard one of the other kids and I was afraid she'd see it and accidentally set the whole place on fire. I put my hand around the flame and blew on it, and as the flame winked out some hot wax flew up into my palm, burning it. So beautiful, so hypnotic, so dangerous. Just like Hannibal Lecter.  
  
I shook my head to clear it of the adrenaline which had already begun to surge, just from the remembrances, and jumped out of bed. Suddenly I needed to take a shower. My face felt grimy, and I remembered how I'd been too lazy to wash it last night. I walked to the bathroom and turned on the water. As I was waiting for it to warm up, my eyes fell on the bottle of perfume he'd placed there the night I arrived. I felt rage boil up in me. I didn't want ANYONE to try and redefine who I was. I had no idea what he meant by the gift, but I wanted no part in it. I flung it into the sink and felt a sense of victory when it smashed, spilling amber liquid down the drain. I turned my back and stepped into the shower, enjoying the feel of warm water on my body. I did my best to ignore the delightful smell from the perfume, something beautifully exotic that brought to mind Asian rainforests: I thought I could smell sandalwood, maybe jasmine. It was both floral and dangerous at once. I tried to force all thoughts of a certain mass murderer and his gifts out of my mind, but the scent kept reminding me of blood-red eyes. Finally, I finished and fled the bathroom, shutting the door behind me as if to keep the scent locked in there. I flipped on the light, and finally realized that he must have been in my room AGAIN.  
  
My dress from last night, which I had left in a tangled heap on the floor, I could see now hanging in the open closet. The handbag which I had last seen in the bushes was now laying on the floor next to the nightstand where I had pushed it when I got the phone. The bouquet from yesterday was gone, replaced by a single coral-colored rose. He'd left a program from the ballet at next to it. I felt my anger and terror evaporate, leaving only a sense of helplessness. He had me entirely at his mercy. He completely controlled this game. I sunk into the armchair, still clad in only the oversized towel, and let the tears drip slowly down my face like a child.  
  
Fin  
part 6 


	7. Clue

Truth or Dare  
part 7  
  
Nearly half an hour later, I was completely calm. I stood up, went to the closet and selected a pair of fitted grey pants and a deep purple pullover. After I was dressed, I looked at the dress, wondering about it the tear in the side. It took me several moments to find it--it had been stitched back in a small, medical stitches. How typical. I felt my lips purse slightly, but I forced the negative feelings back into their little closet at the back of my mind. Now was not the time for emotions; now was the time for business. I picked up my handbag, dumped the contents onto the rumpled sheets and assured myself that everything was still there, even the gun. How foolish of him to let me keep it. I smile slightly. He's underestimating me, I can tell. Well, I'll get him with it.  
  
I put everything back into the casual bag I'd brought with me. It felt good to grip the familiar leather, knowing I bought it for ME. It reminded me that I controlled my own destiny. I saw the paper on the floor and remembered the page he'd pressed into my fingers before disappearing. I bent over, picked it up, and with only the slightest amount of trepidation unfolded it. There was a small note folded inside the larger, which was a map of...well, somewhere in Russia. I looked at it long enough to realize that it was in Russian before turning my attention to the note. It was, as always, in his cursedly perfect handwriting.  
  
  
My Dear Clarice,  
  
I think our game might best take place far from the madding crowd, don't you? Hope to see you there.   
  
Until then,  
Hannibal Lecter.  
  
  
Absurdly, the first thing I noticed is that he didn't use his title when he signed it. What that meant, I had no idea, but knowing his convoluted thinking, it was certainly significant somehow. I looked at the map again, closer. Although it was in Russian, the physical features allowed me to realize it was approximately the area near Moscow and some to the east. Looking very carefully over it, I was certain he must have left a clue. I sat down, holding it closer to the light. still nothing. I held it up to the light. Ah ha!  
  
Near the right edge of the map, there was an X. I fixed my eyes on it and shifted the map down so I could read it. Well, it was in Russian, so I couldn't REALLY read it, but I put my finger on the spot and dug in my purse until I grabbed a pen and circled the area. So now I had a rough clue. I kind of expected a bit more, though. Maybe he left something else, somewhere else. I turned the map over, but it was blank. Maybe the note. But after flipping it over, holding it up to the light, and folding it in several angles, I finally decided if he left something else it wasn't there. I quick glance at the old-fashioned alarm clock told me that I needed to call Jack in about 10 minutes. I stood up, and began placing. There HAD to be something else, I just wasn't seeing it. My eyes fixed on the program on the table and I grabbed it, opening it and searching the margins. Nothing. I flipped it over. Still nothing. I held it up and hoped something would fall out. Once again, it was a wasted effort. I put it back down, looked at the flower. The frustration that started to well up got shoved back into the closet again. Time for that later. I must admit, it was a beautiful flower. I bent down to smell it like I had with the roses.  
  
With my nose so close to his gift, I savored the delicate scent and glanced down into the flower. Wait a minute. Roses do NOT have tiny pieces of paper lodged between their petals. It was hidden so I'd never have found it if I hadn't sniffed the flower. How terribly...Lecterish. I reached two fingers down to extract it, trying not to damage the flower. The note was about the size of 1/2 of a business card, unfolded. It just had an address and tomorrow's date and the word 'breakfast.' Well. I hope that means he wants me to be at the address in time to eat breakfast, not in time to BE breakfast. Another glance at the clock tells me it's time to call Jack.  
  
Fin  
Part 7 


End file.
